


Unread Letters

by macabreflorence



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreflorence/pseuds/macabreflorence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly, as he grew, he gave up bits of his childhood. His silly dreams, his striped jumpers, his old toys and, eventually, his mom. But he never gave up the letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unread Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Some cutesy fluff for you. This was one of the first Teen Wolf fics I wrote, feels already ancient! :x  
> Also posted on my LJ @ zombiepoetry.

Stiles has always written letters.

It's something he learned from his mom. When he was little, he would cry easily and copiously, wear his heart on his sleeve, let the world hurt him again and again. And every time he stood on the sidelines of the playground, sniffling into his jumper, his mom would kneel by and talk to him. And after he'd calmed down, she would ask him to tell about the pain. To release it, to make it into a story. To write it down. Then she would smile, brightly and beautifully and warmly, and suddenly Stiles would find himself at home, scribbling on a scrap paper.

Slowly, as he grew, he gave up bits of his childhood. His silly dreams, his striped jumpers, his old toys and, eventually, his mom. But he never gave up the letters.

He would carry around a notebook and write in it until it got stolen by a few kids in his class. He didn't mind, though - he would write on anything he could. School notes, book pages, cafeteria tables, gift wraps, train tickets, sometimes even his own arms. He wrote to the people who had hurt him or who he thought he might have hurt, the people he never dared to talk to or talked too much to. People he was interested in, people who made him think. He wrote to the other passengers on the bus, that one pretty girl he saw in the stands at a lacrosse game. He wrote to his teachers and friends. At some point, he started writing to other things too, like the wolves he could hear howling sometimes at night and the icebreaker that docked in the Beacon Hills bay for a year. Why Stiles wrote to them, he never knew, still doesn't. He just did.

Letters are his way out. He talks a lot, way too much according to most people, but words never quite manage to let on his true feelings. There is still something he can't bring himself to say, words left lingering on his tongue. He's never been the type to keep a diary or write poems, their meanings are too permanent for him. But letters are short, easy, they don't require anything he doesn't want to give. He just says what he thinks, how he feels, and that's it. It can be anything from one sentence to three full pages, sometimes five times a day and sometimes once a month. It doesn't matter. Nothing is demanded from him, no one else will ever read his words.

Stiles shouldn't be so surprised when he finds himself writing letters to Derek. He still is.

At first, they are short and simple, things he doesn't have time to say or emphasize, things he hadn't had the courage to bring up earlier. _I said I'm not afraid of you, but it was a lie. You scare the living hell out of me._ He often writes them on simple post-its and sticks them somewhere in his bottom drawer, where he doesn't have to think about them ever again. _It's not really the murderous werewolf part. I said I thought you were going to kill me, but that doesn't scare me, really. I know you won't. It's the emptiness in you that scares me. The way you never seem to end, there's never a bottom to your soul. You've lost so much, and I'm so scared that I'm going to end up like you one day._

Sometimes he's angry. _You were wrong._ Or sad. _I'm sorry. I really am._

Sometimes he writes down secrets. _When you pushed me against that wall, I wanted you to lean closer. Just for a moment._

He blushes when writing those things, because they're not right, he shoudn't think or feel that way about someone like Derek, but he can't control his stream of consciousness. So he pushes all the little secrets in his drawer, buries them under the angry ones and the funny ones. Hopes he'd never have to see or find them.

_You looked better today. I wanted to tell you._

_I dreamed about you. I kissed you, and you weren't empty anymore._

_I should be scared. Instead, I want you to come closer. You're a monster._

_The next time you decide to push me against something, don't stop. Please don't stop._

_You can smell it on me, can't you? I wonder what it'd be like if you turned me. It baffles me how much I want to know._

_Your eyes are still gorgeous. I feel stupid. I probably am. It's all your fault._

_I want to see you smile. I want to hear you laugh. It's so difficult to imagine._

_Don't go away. Derek. Why do I keep doing this? It's not like it will ever happen. I'm not good enough. I want to be good enough._

_You would hate me if you knew._

_I looked at you instead of Lydia. Don't make me do this._

_I think you looked at me longer than you should've. My heart jumped. I hate feeling like this._

_I'm alone. I don't want to be._

_You smiled at me._

_not good enough not good enough not good enough_

_I want this to stop. Make it stop. Just kiss me already and make it stop._

Then everything goes wrong, changes and leaves him behind. Peter dies, Derek becomes the Alpha, and for a while their lives are completely upside down. Stiles forgets to write to Derek, tries surviving instead. It's not usual for him to forget writing his letters, but now all the words seem to be stuck somewhere within him where he can't reach them. He's not sure if that's good or not.

And then, a few months later, Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night. The world is still hazy around him, and a part of him is clinging to the remains of his peaceful sleep. He doesn't know for certain what's a dream and what isn't, slowly descending back into the soft darkness of his mind. He thinks he can feel someone moving in his room, but isn't sure. The window might be open, a cold breeze caressing his skin. And for a moment it feels like the side of his bed dibs, like someone's sitting on it. And maybe, just maybe there's someone gently stroking his hair, but he's already too deep in his slumber to tell, and softly mumbles sweet nothings as he slips away from reality.

In the light of the morning his room is empty and his sheets are cold. As he sits up and rubs his eyes, he feels it. Something is different. He can't quite put his finger on what that is, there's just a lingering feeling of a presence long gone, a change of pressure in the air. His gaze flickers around the room and settles on his desk. Everything is on place in its usual, messy way, but the bottom drawer has been left slightly open. He frowns and tries to think back: he doesn't remember even touching it himself. At first, a horrified thought crosses his mind - his dad has been in his room, he has read the letters, and he knows, he knows. Stiles jumps out of the bed and walks up to the desk, heart pounding in his chest and cold sweat breaking on his warm skin.

When he pulls the drawer completely open, he notices a blue post-it on the top of the pile, one he doesn't remember placing there. He bites his lip and picks it up, instantly noticing the neat, unfamiliar handwriting. This isn't from his dad, he realizes. Then he reads the words and feels butterflies in his stomach, trying to fly into his chest and throat, find their way out and away. His head spins and a wide, shy grin takes over his features. There's a small, eloquent 'D' scribbled in the bottom right corner.

_I want my scent on you. I want to feel you, I want to come closer. I love you._

The next time Stiles sees Derek, he smiles. He never gives up the letters.


End file.
